


Made Anew

by erin8508



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, sherlock and john - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-19
Updated: 2018-07-19
Packaged: 2019-06-13 00:55:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15352647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erin8508/pseuds/erin8508
Summary: Sherlock may not be as much of a machine as people think he is.This one is a sad one!!





	Made Anew

You machine

The words rang through Sherlock’s head as he stood in the living room of his flat, staring out the window into the cold, dark, London night. The fireplace cracked and popped in the center of the wall to his left as it worked hard to heat the cool room. Sherlock wore his suit jacket over his white collared shirt along with his trousers and dress shoes. Usually by this time of the night he’d be lounging around in his blue night coat and sweats; however, thoughts invaded his mind and would not allow him to relax for the night. His body, though usually calm and rarely affected by anything, was now betraying him. His thin violinist fingers trembled along with the rest of his body. His hair was damp with sweat and his eyes were bloodshot with tears that he blinked away as not to submit to them. He was in complete disarray. Everything that he deemed to be real was proven opposite, and he was beside himself. This time, he had gone over the edge, and there was no coming back. Fear, panic, and anxiety suddenly overwhelmed Sherlock in an enormously succeeding rate, leaving him no room to rationalize and, or, suppress the feelings.

Machine  
Machine

The words rang in his head and Sherlock squinted his eyes shut, raising his hands to his temples. Squeezing, squeezing. Wondering why he was feeling such dreadful things. If he was, in fact, a machine, would he not feel...feelings? But would it be so wrong as to not feel anything at all? Perhaps feeling is just a word for _weak_.

Suddenly Sherlock let out a yell. Then, his eyes flicked open. There, in the doorway, stood a very concerned looking John. The world stopped for Sherlock when he saw John. It was as if everything that didn’t make any sense suddenly didn’t matter at all, and that he was left with a wave of hope that he’d make it out of what ever mess he’d gotten himself into. There was a noise, however, it was muffled. It seemed as if it was coming from John, but it was weird. Upon hearing it the second time, Sherlock shook himself awake. John was now a few steps closer to him and he had said something. Sherlock blinked.

“What?” He asked the doctor.

“Sherlock,” said Watson. “Are you okay?”

_Yes, John. Of course I am. Fine. Look at me._ Sherlock opened his mouth to say those words, but apparently his mind had other plans.

“I’m,” Sherlock paused. “I’m fine,” was all he could get out. It was time to be a warrior in front of John. He mustn’t see that which made Sherlock _weak_.

“No, Sherlock.” John said. “You’re not. And don’t you dare tell me otherwise.”  
Sherlock felt a lump forming in his throat. He knew that it was, however he hadn’t let that lump win since he was young. Crying is a form of weakness and it doesn’t solve anything. Sherlock looked at John and forced back the tears. He swallowed hard.

“Just,” Sherlock started slowly,“incredibly tired. I think I just need to sleep.” He started to make his way to his bedroom, however, John grabbed his wrist, stopping him. Sherlock stoped surprised, and looked back at John.

“So you can repress your feelings, leading you into a bigger breakdown later?” John raised his eyebrows. “Sherlock, please.” He seemed as if he was begging the detective. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Sherlock turned around and opened his mouth, however what came out surprised John, and even Sherlock himself. It was a sob. One that had been built up for years, and had never been allowed release. Sherlock raised his hands to his face instinctively, and couldn’t help but cry.

“Oh, Sherlock.” John said gently. He reached up and pulled Sherlock’s head to his shoulder, and hugged him tightly. The detective went _weak_. He let himself cry. He let himself _feel_. He let himself fall apart. And he let John Watson pick up the pieces.

John held Sherlock for a while, just standing there letting the fireplace crack and pop, and the wind whirl outside in the dead of night. He too felt the need to cry but this time he had to be strong for Sherlock. He held on to the back of Sherlock’s neck, and tangled his fingers in the ends of his dark curls. The detective smelled of musk and reminiscent cocaine. His body trembled and shook from the drug, which wasn’t helped by his cries.

Sherlock felt his tears pouring from his eyes and collect in the fabric of John’s sweater. He gripped onto the doctor for dear life, as if he’d let go, he would fall into a bottomless pit, never to escape.  
Soon, Sherlock’s weight began to be too much for John, so he sat down with him on the couch opposite wall of the fireplace, and adjacent to the windows exposing the night. John had his arm still around Sherlock, but Sherlock had sat up; however, he stared at the floor. He could not bring himself to look at the man holding him, coddling him like a _child_. Sherlock’s smooth skinned face was now red and soaked with tears. But he had stopped crying, and was now haunted by little gasps for air now and again as his body tried to make up for the lack of oxygen to his brain whilst he had been crying.

John didn’t say anything. He just waited for Sherlock. When he was ready, he would speak. Or, he wouldn’t speak at all. John would just be there for whatever Sherlock needed.

Their relationship was platonic; they were indeed best friends, partners for life. Nothing more, nothing less. However, platonic John Watson found himself playing with platonic Sherlock Holmes’ hair, and platonic Sherlock Holmes found it pleasurable and calming. It was at first a subconscious thing, what John was doing, but even as he became aware of the gesture, John kept doing it. He knew that Sherlock would like it and that it would calm him. So he tangled his fingers gently in Sherlock’s curls, watching the rise and fall of the detective’s chest.

“John,” his voice was raspy and low, and it took John by surprise, pulling him out of his trance. “Thank you, but...I mustn’t keep you from Rosie.”

“I’m not going anywhere,” John whispered. Sherlock swallowed and let John’s fingers pull him into a trance. John studied the curvature of Sherlock’s curls, and the way his lips pointed up to his nose. He noticed a place between his ear and his cheekbones that was matted with hair, and felt the urge to place a kiss there. A gentle, comforting kiss. But the urge was suddenly no longer an urge and then became an action, causing Sherlock to open his closed eyes and look at John.  
John smiled and shook his head, as if he was a child who had been caught sneaking a piece of candy. John opened his mouth.

“You know,” he said. “A wise man once hold me that we may just all be _human_.” Their eyes met, and John leaned in very slowly, and gently pressed his lips against Sherlock’s. It was a quick three second kiss, but it was explosive. It was as if years of repression and self resentment had fallen from them along with all of Sherlock’s tears. It was like a new birth, a second chance, a clean slate.

Their lips parted and they looked at each other, completely vulnerable and yet...not _weak_. Time seemed to slow or maybe not even exist at all. John Watson, the soldier who never came back from the war, and Sherlock Holmes, the junkie always searching for his next high. There together, as one. John placed his hand on the side of Sherlock’s face and gently wiped away his tears with his thumb. “You’re not a machine.” John said. “You are Sherlock Holmes... _the love of my life.”_

Sherlock’s mouth curled into a smile and their lips met again. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s neck and John’s fingers tangled in his hair. Their lips danced and suddenly Sherlock forgot all of his pain. He forgot about the drugs and the heartache and the feelings that he repressed. He was made anew.  
Soon their lips parted, but they stayed close. They leaned back into the couch and Sherlock rested his head on John’s chest whilst John played with his hair. Sherlock’s hands that once shook were now laced with John’s. Sleep soon threatened to take them as they watched the fire dance and listened to its cracks and pops. Before they drifted, Sherlock opened his mouth.

“I love you John Watson.”  
John placed a kiss on Sherlock’s head and they both drifted off into a long, peaceful sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> I suck at writing but I wanted to make something cute and clean! I apologize for any mistakes or inconsistencies.


End file.
